


The Spoils (bad to worse remix)

by neomeruru



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Christophe "Self Destructive Decisions" Giacometti, Drunk Sex, Felching, Jealousy, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Subspace, Unsafe Sex, like literally it just happened, past Christophe Giacometti/Katsuki Yuuri - Freeform, what's aftercare anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: The remix: afterThe Spoils, where he and Yuuri hook up at the Sochi banquet, Chris doesn't go back to his room alone.He goes to Victor's room instead.





	The Spoils (bad to worse remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Spoils](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277630) by [neomeruru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru). 



> >   
>  me: so what if, instead of going home alone and sleeping off his bad decisions  
> me: chris takes victor up on his offer and goes to his room instead  
> me: and victor fucks him bare too, while he's all sloppy from yuuri  
> literally everyone: wow. you're a goddamn monster.  
> me: okay but what if I've already written two thousand words
> 
> A remix of [The Spoils](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11277630), because I couldn't stop thinking about what would have happened if Chris hung out with Victor after fucking Yuuri the night of the banquet. You probably should read The Spoils first, but to recap: Chris is in a Bad Place right now, drunk and pretty vulnerable, and it's going to get worse.
> 
> For [ineptshieldmaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid) and [dance_across](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across) for letting themselves be subjected to me playing angst chicken with myself, and for celebrating when I lost.

> _**Vitya**  
>  I have your jacket and shoes. Drinks? 1803._

Chris breathes out through his lips and dismisses the message. It's this floor; he could stop on his way. He and Yuuri had probably danced right by it. Victor was likely still awake — they both had trouble sleeping after wins, one of many reasons they got along so famously. He could go lie down on that big bed and watch Russian television for a few hours, decimate Victor's stash of nutritionist-approved snacks and debrief on the strange turn Chris's night had taken. 

There's a questioning noise behind him and Chris turns, ready to give the usual song and dance — _so long, thanks for the orgasm, see you next time_ — and sees Yuuri watching him intently. "You're leaving?" he asks.

"Yeah," Chris says. The rest of the words dry up in his mouth. "Thanks."

Yuuri makes a noncommittal noise and rolls over. "Mmn, probably for the best," he says, neutrally, and then nothing else. After a few seconds, his breathing evens out again and he starts to snore.

Chris feels frozen in place.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, as he slides his phone into his pocket. _Maybe I will see what Victor's up to_.

__________________________________

Victor opens the door, takes one look at Chris, and breaks into a wicked smile. "Look what the cat dragged in," he says, in French.

"Hello, beautiful," Chris says, also in French, leaning in to kiss Victor on the cheek. "You know that idioms don't work in different languages, yes?"

"I had some time on my hands to attempt the translation," Victor admonishes him. The _you asshole_ is silent. He grabs the top of the door and leans against it, stretching his long body, and his soft t-shirt rides up his abdomen. Chris's eyes drop, by force of habit, to the revealed sliver of pale skin and the drawstring of his sleep pants. "I don't need to ask where you've been. You reek of sex."

 _Best if you don't ask, honestly_.

"Can I come in?" he asks, instead. It comes out quieter than he intended.

Victor's smile wavers, but fixes back in place, harder. Good. "I don't want your sloppy seconds," he says, archly, flipping his fringe out of his eyes.

Chris bites his tongue and waits.

Victor looks him up and down, taking in the miserable half-dressed state of him, and his face softens. "Of course, _chéri_. Come in."

Chris steps inside, brushing past Victor, who wrinkles his nose at him but doesn't complain further. He takes a few steps into the room and stops, clenching and unclenching his fists. The layout's a perfect inverse of his and Yuuri's respective rooms. The television is on, playing Russian music videos at a low volume, and there's a book of crosswords in English open on the bed. Victor's phone is plugged in and lying on the floor.

Victor closes the door behind him and just waits. Finally, he clears his throat. "I was just kidding," he says, slowly. "If you want to— if you need to— I don't mind."

Chris shakes his head, turning to face Victor. "No, it's…" he starts, then runs his hand through his hair. How does he explain? "I've just had a weird night. Do you mind if I stay here for a while?"

This time, Victor's slow smile is genuine.

__________________________________

Sometimes it's like this. Sometimes they're too exhausted, both emotionally and physically, to fuck, and they end up like this: lying together in a hotel room, not speaking. Victor lays back on the bed and picks up his book of crosswords, and Chris curls himself around Victor, resting his head on his shoulder with one of Victor's arms around him.

Victor holds his book in one hand and cards through Chris's hair with the other, pen in hand, stopping only to mark off a word every so often. Chris tries to pay attention, but Victor shushes him the first few times he tries to offer a solution to a clue, so eventually Chris just closes his eyes and listens to the incomprehensible Russian pop music on the television.

He must doze off, because he can feel himself wake up when Victor closes his book of crosswords. "...time's it," he mumbles, bleary.

"Just after two," Victor says. He links his fingers, encircling Chris in his arms. "Feeling better?"

"No," Chris says. If anything, he feels worse, sweat cooling, sticky everywhere. His head is starting to throb.

Victor hums and rubs his cheek against Chris. "Talk to me about it?"

"No."

Chris can feel Victor's cool blue stare boring into the top of his head, but Victor just takes a breath and holds it a few seconds before letting it out slowly. "That's fine," he says, eventually.

They lapse into silence.

Chris is just about to resolve himself to fall back asleep when Victor takes another breath to speak. Even then, it takes a few seconds before he works up the nerve. "What do you know about Yuuri Katsuki?" he asks.

"Christ, Victor," Chris groans, burying his head into Victor's chest. "Not now."

The silence stretches again, uncomfortable. Chris can feel Victor's heartbeat race under his ear.

"I just…" Victor starts, then clicks his tongue with a dismissive noise. "I had fun tonight."

"We have fun," Chris grouses. He runs his hand up Victor's chest, catching the soft heather with his nails. "I have fun with you."

Victor doesn't answer for a long time. "I do, too." Another pause. "It's different, though. I can't explain it."

Chris thinks back to the the series of photos he has on his phone, and feels like he has something of an idea why.

He pulls his phone out from his pocket and unlocks it, bringing up the album of photos from the day. He scrolls past a few selfies of him and Victor with their medals, starting at the ones where Yuuri was beginning to wipe the floor with the other Yuri in a dance battle. "Here," he says, handing the phone to Victor. "I have pictures from tonight."

Victor smiles and takes Chris's phone. "Oh, I have some of these," he says. "I got a lot of you two dancing together. I'll send you some later."

"I have the ones of you dancing with him," Chris says, and Victor's thumb pauses in swiping before continuing, a little bit faster. Chris smirks into Victor's t-shirt and runs his fingers down Victor's chest this time.

He can tell when Victor gets to the part of the night where he'd started tentatively joining in, because his scrolling slows down until finally it stops entirely. Chris's hand reaches the hem of Victor's shirt and slips under, spreading flat over Victor's stomach. Casual. Friendly.

"He's not like any of them," Victor muses, using his other hand to pinch and zoom on the picture. Chris wonders which photo he's looking at. Is it the one where Yuuri is dipping him, staring into his eyes like there's no one else in the room?

Chris's hand goes up Victor's shirt, forearm brushing against the soft swell of Victor's cock as he does. Victor pulls the phone away and looks down at Chris, a coy smile spreading across his face. "Oh. You've changed your mind, then?"

Chris levers himself so he rolls onto Victor entirely, pinning him to the bed. "Tell me all about Katsuki while I suck you," he purrs, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Victor's pants and tugging until he exposes the base of Victor's cock. It's already firming up, curving up from Victor's neatly trimmed hair. Chris leans in and gives it a kiss.

"You're insatiable," Victor laughs, but he keeps shoving his pants down with one hand. "Fine, I'll play."

Chris leans in and rubs his stubbled cheek over the soft skin of Victor's cock. "What do you like about him?" he prompts.

Victor takes a shaky breath and settles into the pillows, looking back down at the phone in his hands. "You know how... you're one person on the ice, and another at home, and another when you're talking to sponsors," he starts, and Chris runs his lips over Victor's cockhead to reward him for playing along. "He wasn't like that. He was just... himself. You could tell."

Chris hums and takes Victor in his mouth, sucking gently. Victor continues: "I didn't want to dance, at first. I thought… I thought he was strange."

Chris makes a questioning noise, and Victor tosses his fringe out of his eyes with a little laugh. "Isn't that horrible? A beautiful man like that, and I thought, oh, he's making a fool of himself. People were laughing at him, but he didn't care, and…" Victor pauses, "That's so incredible. Who doesn't care, really?"

Victor rests his other hand in Chris's hair and plays with a strand that's gone curly from the exertions of the day. "I'm glad I danced with him," he says, quietly.

"What else do you want to do with him," Chris asks. Victor's face goes red. "Do you want him to do this to you? He'd be so good at it. So enthusiastic."

Victor shakes his head. "No," he says, softer still. "I'd… I'd want to do him, first." Chris smirks and takes Victor in his mouth again, deep. "I'd lay him out, touch him all over," Victor continues, "Kiss him for hours like… like you do when you're teenagers, when you're just learning what another person's body is like."

It's sickening, but Chris kind of likes it. "He tastes so good," Chris says, cladding the truth in fantasy. "You'd put your mouth on him, and—"

Victor sighs, dream-like. "And I'd show him how special he is."

Chris groans around Victor's cock, frustrated. He pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Would you fuck him? Or would he fuck you," he asks, cutting to the chase.

Victor's eyes are half-closed. He clicks Chris's phone off and puts it down on the bed. He looks back at Chris, a knowing smile on his face. "You're not talking about Yuuri," he says.

_No, Victor. I really, really am._

Chris sits back on his knees and starts taking off his shirt. "I think I'm done talking, actually," he says. "Are you up for it or not, Nikiforov?"

Victor sits up in the bed and gently runs his finger down Chris's cheek. "Maybe," he says.

Chris bats Victor's hand away, pushing him back down. Victor bares his teeth when he smiles. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with _maybe_ ," he pushes.

Victor surges up again and kisses him, hands coming up to grab Chris tightly around his biceps. Their teeth clack. Chris tries to get his arms between them, but even with the higher ground he finds himself thrown to the bed.

Victor gets one knee on his back and presses down. All the air goes out of Chris with a whoosh, leaving him light-headed. "You want it so bad, huh?" he teases. "Like this? Where someone else has been?"

Chris feels betrayed by the whimper that rises in him, and grabs the pillow to cover his face. "Please, Victor."

Victor shoves his hands under Chris and undoes his fly, then pushes his pants down just enough to bare Chris's bruise-mottled ass. He lets out a low whistle. "They hung on to _you_ ," he says, grabbing the back of Chris's thong and snapping it. Chris whines through his nose and Victor laughs, muttering something in Russian that Chris _knows_ is derogatory, but he says it so warmly that it just makes all the blood in his body rush in two directions: to his face, and to his cock.

Victor removes his weight from Chris's back and Chris takes a deep gulp of air, shimmying his legs as Victor pulls his pants the rest of the way off. Victor resettles on Chris's thighs, pinning him to the bed. He leans in to kiss the sweaty dip of Chris's back.

"You smell good," Victor murmurs. His lips are softer than Chris deserves.

"Gross," Chris teases, but then Victor's got his hands on Chris's glutes and some animal part of Chris arches back into them.

"I'm serious," Victor says, taking a deep breath with his nose pressed right against Chris's back. "You smell fruity."

" _You_ smell fruity," Chris mutters, then, "It's body lotion."

"Oh," Victor breathes. "They treated you right." He's got two firm handfuls of Chris's ass, fingers slotting right into the bruises Yuuri left, squeezing and spreading. Chris's thong squishes between. He can't believe he hasn't seen — Chris wants him to see. Chris wants him to see, and to — to do something. To yell at him, maybe. Throw him out. Tell him he's dangerous and stupid.

Finally, Victor hooks his fingers in the band of Chris's thong and pulls it down, drawing back to survey the mess Chris knows Yuuri left.

Chris can tell the exact moment Victor notices. The air goes out of the room. Victor perches, perfectly still, on Chris's thighs; he doesn't speak, doesn't move.

Finally, simply: "Chris."

Chris closes his eyes. Covers his face for good measure. Waits.

Victor's fingertips on his shoulder are so gentle. "Chris," he says again, suddenly and devastatingly somber. "Who did this to you?"

He can't help the ugly laugh that bubbles up from his chest. "What, you're jealous?" he says. Maybe if he's cruel enough, Victor will hit him first.

"Is this why you've been so weird tonight?" Victor asks. He digs his fingers in, trying to turn Chris over, but Chris holds tight to the pillows and resists. "Chris. You don't let people do this. Tell me what happened, please. Tell me you're okay and I promise, I'll leave it alone."

It's so gentle, so kind. It's not what Chris wants at all. Chris doesn't want — doesn't deserve — the goodness of a friend like Victor, not now. He's fucked it up and he needs someone to be angry with him, so he can be angry at _them_ instead of himself.

Chris is betrayed again by the hot tears that spring to his eyes, stinging. He opens his mouth to say something mean, but nothing comes out — his throat closes and he gasps, wetly, choking on a sob he tries and fails to wrestle back down into him. No, no—! This isn't what he wants at all!

Victor is off of him in a hot second, and Chris curls his legs under him, turning away from Victor. Victor's hand flutters on his shoulder, like he's not sure whether or not to touch him. Chris is wracked with sobs. "Shit, shit," Victor mutters, "I'm— I'm going to call your coach, okay?"

"No!" Chris says, louder than he intended. "Don't. It's—" he falters, sniffling, "It's— fuck, Victor, you're going to kill me."

"No," Victor says, softly. "Chris, I... I can help. I think. Whatever it is, tell me."

"It's Yuuri," Chris says, quickly. Rips the bandage off. Tries to keep his voice steady. "It's Yuuri. I went to Yuuri's room and we fucked and I let him come in me."

Victor's hand on his shoulder retreats, this time for good.

"Chris—" he starts.

"I _let_ him, Victor, it's fine. I'm fine," Chris says, wiping his eyes angrily with the heel of his hand. He doesn't want to cry. He wants to fight, or he wants to fuck, or he wants to run, but he doesn't want to cry. "I'm fine," he says again.

Victor sucks in a long breath. Chris waits, sniffling intermittently. "Just, so we're being absolutely clear," Victor says, slowly. "You mean… Japanese Yuuri. Not Plisetsky."

Chris's face screws up. "Gross, Victor. No."

Victor lets out a noise, like, he wouldn't put it past him to fuck up that badly and literally come crying to him right after. Chris's face burns. But then Victor's hand returns, skating down his spine, lighter and lighter until only the barest whisper of fingerprints caress the cleft of Chris's ass.

"He did this," Victor whispers. "You let him do this."

 _Oh,_ Chris thinks. _So it could go like this_.

He arches his back, meeting Victor's fingers. Victor breathes in, quick, and pulls his hand away like he's been burned. "What the _fuck_ , Chris, that's so dangerous," he seethes.

"I know," Chris says, drawing it out.

"You don't know anything about him. He doesn't know _anything_ about you."

"I know," Chris says again. "I'm clean, though—"

Victor's voice jumps up, as much of a shout as one can get and still be decent in a hotel room at two in the morning. "Even if _you're_ clean, _he_ doesn't know that! That's so disrespectful!"

"I _know_ ," Chris moans, arching up so he knows Victor can see the sloppy, swollen mess Yuuri left of him. He doesn't need to look to feel Victor's eyes burning into him there. "But it was so _good_ , Victor, fuck, I've never felt anything like it."

Maybe he's laying it on a little thick, but it works as intended. Victor goes still and quiet again. "We've never done it without," Victor says, almost to himself. His hand comes up and strokes Chris's asscheek, spreading him. Then he's on his knees, straddling Chris again, staring.

"You want it," Chris says, looking back over his shoulder. "It's so good, Victor."

"Fuck you," Victor says, without heat. "I'm so angry with you— you—"

Chris grins and bends, lifting his rear up to grind against Victor. He's hard again. "Not that angry."

Silence. "Not that angry," Victor agrees, subdued.

"I'll let you do it," Chris groans, getting up onto his elbows and rutting back. Victor's cock slides between his asscheeks. "Do you want to fuck me like he—"

The sudden crack seems to startle them both, Victor's hand hanging in the air as numbness floods Chris and then pain roars in, sharp and clarifying. "Christ, Victor!" Chris swears, dropping one shoulder back down to the bed.

"Don't," Victor manages. He sounds like he's choked up. "Don't."

Chris shoves one hand underneath himself and grabs his cock, twisting his wrist a few times. Yeah. Yeah, this'll do. "Why," he goads, "do you want to lick it all up first? Do you want to taste him on me?"

Victor makes a disgusted noise, but pulls back all the same, pushing Chris with both hands so he folds in two, chest to knees.

Chris feels the warmth of Victor's mouth on his thighs first, sucking a punishing bite into the muscle. Chris gasps in pain, flexing his adductors, as Victor licks over the dents from his teeth. Victor follows the line of the muscle with his tongue, the path of Yuuri's spend, all the way to the vulnerable hollow where thigh meets groin. He's breathing heavily; Chris can feel his hot breath on him, paradoxically cooling where he's still wet and sticky.

"That's so dirty," Chris croons. "Filthy. Disgusting. You want to lick me there, where he was. He fucked me there, left his come in—"

Chris's mouth stops working when Victor's tongue breaches him, no subtlety. Chris can feel teeth. Victor's mouth is open and groaning, his fingers digging in, laying his mark over Yuuri's.

Jealousy is strange, Chris thinks. Like a cat scenting its owner when they've returned from the outside world; your lover returns with the mark of another and it makes you want to mark them ten times over, erasing the other from their skin. He and Victor have never been like that. But perhaps—

He's returned bearing the mark of Yuuri Katsuki, and Victor's incandescent jealousy will burn away the flammable material that makes up Christophe and leave only the mark, like a nuclear shadow.

Chris's mouth twists strangely. That's fine. He can slip away. He can make himself be gone. One more time, then he'll disappear.

Victor pulls back, gasping for breath. His lips are shiny, pale skin red from nose to chin from the friction. His hair sticks out at weird angles. Chris just stares, capturing the moment in time forever.

"You really should fuck me," Chris says, as if commenting on whether Victor should order the chicken or the fish.

"I—" Victor starts, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, convulsive. He sits back on his heels, looking lost. "I… can't, I... like this?"

Chris reaches back and spreads himself with one hand. "Just like this. Just like he did."

Victor runs a trembling hand through his hair, fixing nothing at all. "Bare?" he asks.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" Chris retorts, "Come on. Victor. Fuck me. Fill me up again. Come in me."

Victor groans, grabbing his dick with one hand and squeezing as a fat stream of precome gushes from him. His whole abdomen clenches, Chris can see it from here. "Okay," he says, then again, more confident: "Okay. You swear on your life you're clean."

"That's such a terrible word, darling. I'm clearly _very dirty_ ," Chris cajoles, massaging his glute. Victor lets out a broken moan and gets back to his knees, replacing his hands on Chris's hips. "But yes. You won't catch anything from me. Or our precious dancer, either. He was as pure as the driven snow."

He can't help the jab, so it's a good thing it lands true. Victor bares his teeth, hands tightening so viciously around Chris he almost recoils and begs him to call it off. Almost.

Victor's cockhead pushes at his rim, slipping around in his spit and Yuuri's reconstituted spend. Chris levers himself up on his elbows, but Victor just pushes him back down with a hand on his shoulderblades, and Chris smiles.

"Oh, you're good," he says, twisting so he can still look Victor in the eye. "This is exactly how he did it."

"Shut _up_ , Christophe, for once. I don't care that you slept with him. I care that you're being an _asshole_ about it. That you weren't safe. That neither of you treated the other the way you deserve to be treated, and it's hurting you." Victor hooks his thumb on Chris's rim, gauging the stretch.

"Yeah?" Chris groans, presenting himself, "Treat me how I deserve, then, Victor." He swallows, a different thought: "Don't use your fingers. Just fuck me the way he left me."

Victor lets out a strangled groan and angles himself properly. Chris's body is so open and so wet that the head of his cock pops right in, eliciting a gasp from Victor. Slowly, Chris pushes back, letting Victor feel every delicious inch as he sinks into Chris without a condom.

" _Fuck_ ," Victor whispers. "It's so warm like this."

Chris hums, pleased. "It's good, isn't it," he says as he takes Victor to the root and just as slowly begins his ascent. "How much more you can feel."

Victor's thumb caresses him, running soothing circles over his tailbone. "I can feel everything," he wonders, "Is it different for you?"

"Mmn," Chris says. "Not yet. That part comes later."

Victor snorts at the pun, but keeps moving, taking over the active movement as Chris resettles with his chest back on the bed. It's easy, both from how well Victor knows his body and how Chris has been split open and used hard once already tonight.

"Wow. You're so loose," Victor comments fondly, as if he can read Chris's mind, and Chris snaps back unpleasantly to Yuuri's pleased little laugh and his clever fingers. He feels his anger rise in him like the sun, scorching.

This isn't what he wants — not this happy boyfriends shit. Not this laughing together while they hold hands and lovingly fuck each other in the ass. 

"Fuck! God's sake, Victor, fuck me!" he complains, twisting a little in Victor's grip. "Like you give a shit!"

"I— I don't want to hurt you," Victor admits. "I don't care what you're trying to make me do. I'm not going to literally hurt you."

" _Fuck_ you, Victor, fuck you, give me what I want or get the fuck out of me," Chris cries, trying to shove himself back onto Victor's cock, though Victor's grip makes them move together. There's no ground to be gained. _Hurt me so I stop wanting to hurt myself_ , he wants to say, but noble fucking Nikiforov doesn't understand it like that — doesn't know you lance the boil to drain the infection, to start to heal. That sometimes you need to amputate.

Victor just looks at him, gaze soft and understanding. It makes him want to be sick.

Chris stills, a heavy thought coiling in his stomach like a viper. "He called me by your name," Chris says. He makes his voice ice, feels it come up sharp and cut him on the way out.

Victor goes silent. Doesn't move. Chris is getting good at that, getting that horrified reaction from him.

" _Vi-Victor_ ," he whines, hardening the V and lengthening the R. "Victor," he says again, higher pitched, breathy. "Be my coach, Victor."

Victor grunts, pained. The hand in the middle of Chris's shoulderblades pushes down, hard, bouncing his head on the bed. Chris reaches up and braces himself, forearms on the headboard. And then Victor's in him, all the way, violent, hipbones bruising, fucking him hard and fast.

Chris's shoulders tense up with the effort it takes to keep bracing and not slide up the bed. It takes all his strength; he can't even spare a hand to get one around himself, so it's just Victor pounding into him that might get him off. If anything will at all. Chris finds he doesn't mind that in the least; he doesn't want to feel good.

Victor's cursing, a steady stream of invectives in Russian that makes Chris's ears burn. Chris knows just enough Russian to get a coffee, and it sounds nothing like what's coming out of Victor now. These ones are cruel.

"Victor," he whines again, hitting Yuuri's inflection the best he can while Victor fucks the breath out of him.

Victor hauls back and hits him, really hits him, and the pain comes flooding in again, searing out any other sensation. It ebbs quickly, throbbing in Victor's wake. "Again," Chris demands, presenting his ass for more. "Do it again."

Victor obliges, hitting him fifteen, twenty more times in aching succession, until Chris's ass feels broken open. Then Victor changes tactic, scraping his nails deep across the welt. Chris howls and kicks, fruitlessly.

"You don't get to talk," Victor growls, grabbing Chris's shoulder and shaking him for good measure. "You're going to get what you wanted and then you're going to leave, and I don't want to see you until you're a decent fucking person again."

" _Yes_ ," Chris moans, pleasure and relief flooding in that Victor finally _gets_ it. If no one wants him, he has nowhere further to fall. It'll be just him.

Chris can actually _feel_ himself surrender, a distinctly physical feeling like stepping into a hot bath when your muscles are screaming. Everything unhinges in sequence and he submerges, feeling the water close over his head. He's somewhere else.

Victor fucks him mercilessly for what feels like forever, time stretching out between them until there's only Victor moving in him, nothing else. At some point his arms give way and he ends up pushed against the headboard, a pillow over his face to drown out some of the sounds that he can no longer control.

It feels good to be used.

He doesn't even know if he comes, but at some point there's a terrible feeling of relief and he rockets back into his body, just in time to feel Victor curl over him and grunt, shoving in sharply a few more times as he floods Chris with a second release of hot, slick come. Chris's guts knot up and he moans, slamming his hand down against his abdomen to chase that phantom feeling.

Victor doesn't stay, doesn't play at romance; he pulls his wilting dick out of Chris and leans back on his heels, sucking air through his teeth as he surveys the damage. Chris can feel the lightest press of a thumb around his swollen rim before it disappears.

For at least a minute, there's nothing but the sound of Victor's laboured breathing and the whining that still overflows from the great well of pain that rises in Chris. Fuck, he's in _so much_ pain — aside from the obvious, his asscheeks must be blistered, every muscle is screaming, and there's throb deep in his guts that gnaws at him like a hunger. He tries to get his knees under him and just falls back down, muscles refusing to hold any position that isn't laid out and trembling.

"Get out," Victor says, finally.

"Victor—"

"Get _out_ ," Victor repeats.

Chris closes his eyes. "I— I don't think I can," he admits. He shifts and feels a fat glob of come ooze out of his abused hole, stinging. "Can I— can I just— I just need a minute, okay?"

Victor's voice is cold. "You got what you wanted."

A hot tear rolls down his cheek and Chris turns his head to hide it quickly in the pillow. "I know. I'm going to go, I just—"

Victor makes a disgusted noise and pushes himself off the bed. "I'm going to go shower. I don't want to see you when I'm done."

Chris nods and rubs his eyes with his thumb. "Okay," he agrees, weakly.

This is his exit. This is what he wanted. A messy break is better than holding on.

He waits, but he doesn't hear the bathroom door close. When he looks, Victor is facing away, one hand braced on the wall. "Vitya?" he whispers.

Victor's hand clenches. "I'm sorry," he says, quietly. "That— how you wanted it— it should have been special. I shouldn't have just taken it from you like that."

"It's okay," Chris tries to reassure him. "I asked for it."

"You didn't even ask about me. If I'm..." Victor trails off. "Don't you care?"

"Do I have anything to care about?"

Victor's silent a long time. Long enough that a tendril of real fear uncurls in Chris's gut. "No," he says, finally. "There hasn't been anyone else in a while."

Chris doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Eventually, Victor's fist slides down the wall and he disappears into the bathroom. "Text me in the morning," he says as the door closes. "Let me know you're okay."

"I will," Chris promises.

He's gone by the time the shower turns off.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.
> 
> I write! I draw! I make julienne fries! Your comments literally sustain me! Join me [on Tumblr](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com) for my fanart and other stuff!
> 
> This fic is remix-friendly: I give blanket permission for non-commercial translations, podfics, remixes, inspired fanfic, and fanart! Just let me know where you put it, so I can make sure others see it too!


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